


Mattress Glow

by tvvinkqueen



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Face-Fucking, First Time, Hair Pulling, Hand Jobs, M/M, Making Out, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Researcher Stiles, Rimming, Rough Sex, Smut, Stiles likes nicknames apparently, Top Derek Hale, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Wolf Derek, sterek, there's no scent marking but derek is sniffing a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-12 03:29:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7918765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tvvinkqueen/pseuds/tvvinkqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He guesses it has to do with the fact that after all these years of popping unintentional boners every time he got around Derek alone he finally got close enough to him for him to recognize what exactly that scent was and what exactly was happening beneath his Captain America boxers.</p><p>or, to put it in simpler terms,</p><p>Derek smells a boner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mattress Glow

**Author's Note:**

> okay so i was just really high when i wrote this my bad, although sober me edited this so you can blame any mistakes on me just being unobservant. this is my first sterek so don't shoot me pls.
> 
> also just as a heads up stiles is 18 in this. it isn't stated til the end but im not sure if i say something that may make him seem underage so im just letting you know right away.
> 
> also also this is shameless smut and really has 0 plot even though i somehow managed to spew 7k of bullshit in doing so.
> 
> also also also there's a half second mention of stiles/jackson but that can be easily overlooked and ignored.
> 
> (title is taken from Dive In by Pierce The Veil)

Stiles ran his hand over his face for what seemed like the 10th time that past hour, pausing to dig aching fingers into closed eyes from under black-framed squared glasses each time. He’s holding back a yawn, instead breathing heavily through his nose with his lips pursed.

Researching was fun – it was Stiles’ forte; he didn’t have super-human strength like the other werewolves he had the unfortunate ( _kidding_ – kinda) pleasure of being friends with, wasn’t some weird psychic _all-powerful screaming-Banshee_ like Lydia, and he definitely didn’t have the skills in combat and archery and guns and _all that cool shit he had no knowledge of_ like Allison.

What he did have, however, was a computer and way too much free time on his hands. That, combined with the copious amounts of coffee he drank mixed with his Adderall medication led to long nights on his laptop with his wrists sore from typing and scribbling notes, most of them illegible and hardly making any sense.

It’s nearing 12am, (not like Stiles knows that anyways), which wouldn’t have seemed too late to most people – for those having to get up at 7am it was still somewhat of an acceptable time to fall asleep – but having been up at 4am the morning prior because Scott was _sure_ Lydia had figured out the type of plant that would kill whatever stupid thing they were trying to kill and he needed to come with him to the damp, dew covered forest _immediately_ , he was a bit more tired than the average Joe.

For the 11th time, he goes to rub his face again, this time finally letting himself succumb to the overwhelming urge to just yawn and give in to his sleepy mind.

But, of course, it was almost as if the universe hated him and couldn’t even let him have one good yawn, because he jerks violently in the middle of it and brings his hands to his chest at the ratcheting sound of the obnoxiously huge sliding door to Derek’s loft opening, revealing none other than the werewolf himself. He looks surprised to see Stiles there, at the desk at the far back of the loft; there’s the blurred orb of the half-moon that can be seen through the stained windows lining the walls behind his form.

It’s dark in the loft, the only light coming from where Stiles is sat – one from the dim, barely 75watt desk lamp that’s on Stiles’ left, and one from the laptop currently reflecting onto Stiles’ face and through his glasses.

“Why are you still here?” Derek asks, stepping into the room and dropping his keys on the coffee table that sits across from the only couch in the place (which Stiles never got why the dude only had one couch when half the time Pack meetings were held at his place and it usually ended up with childishly wrestling Malia over who gets the empty spot).

“What do you mean?” Stiles asks, still frozen in that awkward position with his hands together and hovering just below his chin, head cocked slightly to the side and eyes wide.

“It’s almost Midnight,” Derek states pointedly, thick brows slightly raised, mouth open and, although Stiles is too far away, he’s pretty sure he’s seen Derek’s bunny teeth enough times to just imagine how they must look at that moment.

Sniffling and taking off his glasses Stiles blinks a few times, taking hold of the sides of his laptop as he leans forward and squints at the top corner of the screen, reading the black numbers that, sure enough, almost mockingly tell him that it’s 11:47pm and he’d been researching for over 6 hours.

“Huh.” He leans back in the chair, mouth open in a way his dad would usually yell at him for. “Guess it is.”

He stands, walking around the desk and down the few steps into what was technically Derek’s living room. But, like was said before, it was just a single couch and a single coffee table, not complimented with a single TV, no, but with a single _rug_. Not only was Derek a _sucker_ for home decor, he was _clearly_ unconventional.

Sarcasm. The thought was _dripping_ with sarcasm.

Stiles walks until he’s on the other side of the couch, leaning back on the armrest and crossing his own over his chest, watching as Derek walked to the rack and hug his jacket up on it. Stiles took note of the dark heather-grey Henley he was wearing, fitted and stretched over tight muscles like usual.

If Stiles was checking him out, he wasn’t going to admit it. Not aloud anyways.

“So, anything exciting happen?” Stiles asks, referring to the big _creature hunt_ Derek and the other wolves – others being Scott, Isaac, Malia (though, she was a were-coyote which Stiles still found incredibly weird because _what? How?_ ), and Peter – went on that they swore was too dangerous and something no humans could help with; at least not yet.

“Not particularly,” Derek answers, and Stiles applauds him on his ability to _still_ have this monotone voice when they talk like everything Stiles says to him is just white noise. “Why don’t you go home, it’s late.”

It was more of a statement, really, than a question, but Stiles shrugs nonetheless, palms to the Heavens and lips forming a straight line.

“I’m not done researching.”

“Yes you are.”

Stiles laughs at that, one short, loud hoot that echoes in the empty room.

“Okay big guy,” Stiles nods, mockingly, taking note of the way Derek shakes his head at the nickname when he walks away from the center of the room to the wall on the far right, heading towards the bookcase and stopping to gaze through the spines. He pulls one out, looking over the cover before sauntering (yes, Derek Hale was _sauntering_ his way back to the couch and Stiles was pretty sure his bottom lip was quivering because there was nothing quite like watching Derek’s jean covered hips sway back and forth) over to him.

Stiles follows him all the way through, turning his shoulders with his head to get better looks when Derek gets closer and sits on the couch at the furthest cushion from where Stiles was rested at the other end, turning on the lamp beside him.

“You know uh,” Stiles begins, straining to look over his shoulder to the man ( _grouchy wolf_ ) seated behind him with the book already opened to a spot in the middle of the story. “This is usually the point where you kick me out. You know, grab me by the back of my collar and tug on me until you give in trying to play nice and just use your wolf strength to drag me out, slamming the door in my face with this grumpy-slash-annoyed look on your face. Something like that.”

Without looking up from his book, Derek turns a page and says, “I’ve dealt with too much stuff tonight to worry about whether or not you’re here. You can stay or you can go, I’m not going to worry about it.”

Stiles opens his mouth, ready to shoot back with something about how gentlemanly it was of him (or something cheesy like that just because he liked watching Derek get all shy and liked watching the tips of his ears go red from embarrassment) when Derek cuts him off.

“But if I get some sort of phone call from your dad asking why you’re late to school again I’m not taking the fall for you.”

“That was one time,” Stiles retorts, pushing himself off the couch to head back to the desk to grab his laptop and turn the light off. He comes back, passing in front of Derek this time, to take a seat at the other end of the sofa, folding his legs under himself Indian-style and resting the computer on his lap.

Derek’s nostrils flare at the scent that breezes by, following Stiles and turning his head slowly towards the boy next to him who’s buried back in the bright screen and holding a coffee mug to his lips.

Stiles is too engrossed in his searches on the 27th page of Google to realize at first just how hard the older man was currently staring at him, and it takes him a few seconds to catch him out of the corner of his eye. He glances once, and then again, looking from Derek to the screen and back, perking his head up slightly.

“What?”

Derek looks confused; looks him over slowly with his lips parted, closing them when he shakes his head slowly and turns back to his novel.

“You… Nothing.”

Stiles raises a brow, but reverts back his laptop. He still had an hour or two left in him.

\---

Or fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes was good.

Stiles had yawned probably like, 42 times in the past fifteen minutes and Derek couldn’t take it anymore, each yawn seemingly more overdramatic than the last, and (seeing as it was Stiles) it got _really_ overdramatic.

So Derek shut his book, tossed it on the coffee table, and stood up, snatching the laptop from Stiles' lap despite his protests. He made grabby hands at it, reaching up towards it but making no move to get up and actually fight with him for it. Derek simply closed it and bent over to take the mug from Stiles’ hands as well.

“You’re stripping me of my rights,” Stiles says, resisting the urge to say something stupid about how he should be stripping him of his clothes instead, and Derek makes that face at him again, the one where he looks like a bemused puppy, but he rids of it when he notices Stiles staring at him oddly.

“You’ve yawned more times than I even thought was possible for someone with that amount of coffee in you.”

“Hey,” Stiles warns playfully, lifting a hand, his fingers shaking. “Clearly it’s still working.”

“And clearly you need to go to bed.” Derek sets Stiles’ things on the table behind him. “I’ll go upstairs and grab you some sleepwear.”

“Pajamas, Derek,” Stiles calls at Derek’s back. “They are called pajamas, I don’t care how old or manly you’re trying to seem.”

Derek doesn’t even bother to roll his eyes as he begins ascending the spiral staircase up to his room. He doesn’t want to think about having Stiles spend the night again, not because he was annoyed with the kid (not entirely annoyed at least) but because there was something off this night, something in his scent he couldn’t pinpoint, but it definitely wasn’t very Stiles-esque. Stiles usually smelled of nerves, mostly – nerves and jitters mixed with the body scrub he used in the mornings, and just in general like cinnamon and warmth and _nice things_. Usually he carried some of Scott’s scent on him as well, which the mixture of Alpha and anxieties was a strange one but it was so normal for Stiles.

He smelled of all those things, hints of sleepiness peeking through, but there was something underlying it all and it takes him longer than it should have to figure it out.

It throws him off until then.

“What’s taking so long, Sourwolf?” Stiles suddenly asks, and he would have startled Derek if he hadn’t heard him pattering up the stairs 10 seconds before.

“Stop with the nicknames.” Derek’s back is still turned to him, rummaging through his drawer and trying to find something he’s okay with never seeing again, because Stiles was like that and once you gave him something to borrow it was highly unlikely you were going to see it again for a long time – if ever.

“But they’re so _you_ , Grumpy Pants.”

Derek pauses at that, both brows raised this time. “Grumpy Pants, really?”

He can almost hear Stiles shrug.

“What can I say, Whiskers, you’re a man of many names.”

Derek turns around then, a pair of blue plaid pajama pants and a plain white shirt in his hands as he steps forward to where Stiles is standing, still hovering near the staircase.

“I tend to prefer Derek, though.”

“Derek’s no fun,” Stiles says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world – like it was something Derek’s known his whole life and it was astounding that he was acting as if he didn’t have a clue. “Why be Derek when you can be Señor Hale, or Muscle Man, or Big Scary Wolf Boy That Kind of Looks Like He Wants To Kill Me Right Now?”

Derek seems to tower over him, not realizing until Stiles had said something that he was unintentionally glowering at the paler boy.

“Chill,” is all Stiles says when he remembers that, although Derek is technically a werewolf that could rip his throat out any second, he was a very hot (just an _observation_ ) werewolf that was also one of his close friends (though Derek wouldn’t openly admit that to just anyone) and wouldn’t harm a hair on his head.

Unless asked, of course.

Or begged.

Either or was good.

“I’m chill,” Derek says, and Stiles can’t help but laugh at the serious look on his face as he said it, completely contradicting the words.

“Okay Corn-Hale-io,” Stiles mocks, taking the pile of clothes from Derek’s hands and holding them to his chest.

“That was just bad,” Derek grimaces and steps aside, letting Stiles pass freely to change in the bathroom off of the room.

“Clever,” Stiles corrects, giving one last smile with his eyes squinted and the corners of his mouth stretching from ear to ear.

“Sure.”

The door isn’t closed for long, but Derek takes the time to strip down to his boxer briefs, Henley still on when Stiles reappears, dressed in Derek’s pajamas and looking strangely sheepish. His clothes are in hand, looking unsure of what to do with them still. Stiles usually got like that around this time when he spent the night with Derek, the rare times he did, suddenly somewhat reserved in a way where deep down he knew he was in Derek’s space and didn’t want to trash the place by throwing his clothes wherever. The boy was obnoxious, yeah, but at least he still had manners.

So Derek walks to him, Stiles taking a few steps forward so they meet not quite in the middle of the room. Derek grabs Stiles’ clothes and the off-stench comes back again, seeming to radiate from the fabric in his hands. It makes his entire body tense up and Stiles notices the change in posterity immediately.

The older man looks startled almost, giving the younger that same questioning look from before as he gazes down at the small pile he was grasping.

Almost hesitantly, he brings the baggy jeans, shirt, and thin blue jacket Stiles had been wearing to his nose, inhaling sharply. His eyes flick blue for a second, cutting through the sharp green that normally adorn his eyes through dark lashes; he doesn’t miss the quick intake of breath Stiles gives at the shift.

“You smell…” Derek trails off, unable to pinpoint the scent but becoming unbearably close; dropping the clothes he had been holding he leans forward, slowly at first with his eyes locked on Stiles’. The anxiety that usually decorated his aroma intensified, but Derek doesn’t find any hint at all of Stiles telling him to back the fuck off.

In fact, Stiles tilts his head to the side in a slow movement, offering his neck to the elder; it makes Derek’s wolf howl, so Derek does what comes naturally to him and he closes the gap between them, dropping his forehead to the crook of Stiles’ neck and breathing in.

Stiles startles, just barely, but stays put because holy fuck this was Derek, fucking _buried_ in his neck and yeah, that was Derek taking him by the shoulders and yep, that was fucking _Derek_ pushing him back to the bathroom door. It isn’t rough by any means, but Stiles still gasps sharply because Derek is currently nuzzling into that area that connects his shoulder and his neck and running his hands down his arms and it’s fucking _sick_ , okay?

“Uh, D-Derek?” Stiles starts, ready to say something more (something like, _this is great and all but why are you smelling me like your life depends on it_ ) when Derek growls, low in his throat, and Stiles knows that growl – knows it isn’t something malicious but something protective and possessive.

Derek. Possessive. Over _him_.

Like he said, _sick_.

“You smell like sex,” Derek finally breathes, gaining control of his voice and words because yeah, he could talk and form coherent sentences and no, the arousal dousing Stiles' scent was _not_ in fact affecting any sort of region that sat below his navel and above his knees.

“Oh.”

That’s it. That’s all that could come out of Stiles’ mouth. Just ‘oh’, and an audible swallow as they both begin to breathe in heavier patterns. He guesses it has to do with the fact that after all these years of popping unintentional boners every time he got around Derek alone he finally got close enough to Derek for him to recognize what exactly that scent was and what exactly was happening beneath his Captain America boxers.

“You have to tell me,” Derek says, pulling back from where he was burrowed into Stiles’ collar to look him over, focusing more on Stiles’ lips and his chin rather than his doe-like eyes that were blinking abnormally fast.

Stiles breathes slowly, trying to control the shakiness of his voice because that’s not manly and he doesn’t need Derek to know how badly he wants to drop to his knees and body worship his abs for approximately three and a half minutes before tugging those tight, white briefs down and _fuck_ Stiles was hard. “Tell you what?”

He feels Derek’s fingers at the hem of his shirt then, fingertips running back and forth over the hair from his happy trail, tracing the elastic of his pants.

“Tell me I’m right. And that I can.”

“Oh yeah,” Stiles says almost immediately, nodding like a bobble head hit one too many times. Derek listens to his heartbeat – steady, a bit fast, but no jumps or rise in pace can be found. “Fuck yeah definitely; you’re like, as right as anyone can be about anything. And you totally can, I give you a thousand and ten percent permission to do anything you want it’s like-“

A hand (a _large_ hand at that) clamps over his mouth.

“Stiles.”

“Yeah?” he says, muffled. Derek takes a second to admire his eyelashes and the way they flutter ever so slightly.

“Stop talking.”

Stiles nods from behind Derek’s fist, watching him slowly draw it away from his face and back to his lower tummy, both hands tracing around his frame to the small of his back. He presses their stomachs together, giving no more than a second thought before slotting their lips together, and Stiles isn’t going to lie and say that he sees fireworks or hears bells or any of that cringe-y cliché shit, but he does feel a wave of arousal wash over him and pool straight in his dick when he realizes just how big Derek’s hands have to be to be covering that much space on his back.

He makes a surprised little noise in Derek’s mouth when he bites down on his bottom lip, and seconds later Stiles parts his lips a bit too willingly, craving for that dirty make-out session he’d jerked off to the thought of way too many times to be healthy.

And it’s better; way better than just imagining it in his head because Derek was real, he was real and he was kissing Stiles dirtily and his beard scruff was an actual thing that was rubbing against his bare face as they kissed and _fuck him_ if he ever dared to say it wasn’t the hottest thing he’d ever experienced.

So, sue him for being just the tiniest bit desperate when Derek’s thumbs dig into his hipbones and pin him to the door, fighting to rut against something because the sudden loss of Derek’s crotch pressing against his own wasn’t a very nice feeling, thanks.

“Still,” Derek says, lowering his head to nip at Stiles’ chin and Stiles closes his eyes slowly.

“I can do still,” he nods, tilting his head up more so that Derek can sink blunt teeth into his throat, sucking gently in a way that just makes Stiles want to whine more than anything because it wasn’t enough stimulation. He’d waited far too long just to have Derek Hale, Mr. Sex on Legs, hottest fucking werewolf _and_ human he’d ever seen, to suck baby ass marks into his neck.

“I lied, I can’t do still,” Stiles says a few seconds later, shaking his head back and forth quickly and slinking out from Derek’s grip. Derek could have kept him pinned there easily, if he really wanted him there, but he lets Stiles go instead and allows him to crowd him back on the wall opposite of them, bumping into his dresser where Stiles corners him in, hands bracing against the wood on either side of Derek’s hips.

He kisses the elder immediately, arching into it with such force that Derek’s leaning back and Stiles is struggling on his tippy toes to keep them attached at the lips.

They part for a moment, just so Stiles can pull Derek’s Henley over his head, revealing abs that look sculpted by Gods themselves, and Stiles takes a moment to not only thank every deity he knew offhand, but to whine audibly in the back of his throat before bowing and nipping at Derek’s collarbone, aching to tarnish the skin.

He kisses down his chest, sinking to his knees and Derek watches with dark eyes, steadying himself against the dresser when Stiles bites the stitching of his briefs.

“Wish I could mark you,” he mumbles, looking up at Derek through thick lashes and fuck, if that wasn’t the most beautiful thing Derek had ever seen. He kisses the V leading beneath fabric and presses his nose to the hair disappearing to places that aren’t going to be as foreign to Stiles as he once thought. “Wish I could see what you’d look like with bite marks all over you.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, wishing he could see too; wishing just for once his body wouldn’t let him heal so he could follow the designs on his skin, like tracing the moles that speckle Stiles’ torso.

“Fuck, Derek,” Stiles sighs, sounding drunk and completely out of it with his head rubbing against the bulge in Derek’s briefs. “Can I-“

“Don’t even ask,” Derek cuts him off, and that’s good enough for Stiles, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he pulls back, allowing Derek to run his fingers through his disheveled hair as he tugs Derek’s briefs down until they drop to his feet. The elder doesn’t have a chance to step out of them because Stiles already has his dick in his hand and his balls in his mouth, his free hand fixing himself on Derek’s thigh for balance as his tongue traces a line from the base of his cock all the way to the head, teasing the slit with slight pressure.

If Derek had known Stiles was going act like this much of a cockslut he might’ve forced himself to search out the pheromones and would have gone for this sooner.

Stiles doesn’t have much experience with the whole _dick-in-mouth_ aspect of things, but he did suck off Jackson that one time after Lacrosse practice and it taught him just how far he could get something in his mouth without gagging on it.

Derek was bigger though, not incredibly so, but enough that Stiles isn’t sure he’d be able to get all of him in his mouth.

But he’s determined, and he tugs back the foreskin and watches little beads of precome form at the head, licking at them before wrapping his mouth around the crown of Derek’s cock, humming.

Derek just watches, unable to do much else besides just letting Stiles work at him and grasp at the edge of his dresser with white knuckles, bones rising through skin. He didn’t think he would come home to Stiles sucking him off in his pajamas but he supposes it’s better than what he was planning on doing (which was really just going to bed or jerking off to a similar thought).

Stiles goes at it then, bobbing his head and taking him further inside his mouth every time he leans forward, and it isn’t long until his nose is actually pretty close to the messy bunch of pubic hair at the base of Derek’s cock. It’s all noise at that point, wet lips and heavy breathing coming from both parties and Derek resists the urge to growl when Stiles retreats with a pop, replacing his mouth with his hand. It isn’t the movement, but the image that really fucks with Derek’s head because Stiles’ mouth was red and raw already and his lips were shiny, parted in a way that was entirely too obscene for him to handle.

He bucks slowly into the hand currently jerking him off and Stiles nods when he lines his mouth up again, looking up at Derek with expectant eyes.

But Derek doesn’t move, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Seriously?” Stiles scoffs. “Do I have to spell it out for you? Fuck my mouth, dude.”

Derek blinks. “What?”

“Fuck. My mouth. Come on, Sourwolf.” And then Stiles' jaw drops like it’s the easiest thing in the world, hands resting atop both of his thighs as he waits with his tongue poking out ever so slightly. Derek doesn’t hesitate after that, pushing himself off the wood and taking a tuft of hair from the top of Stiles’ head between his fingers, holding his head in place and using his other hand to guide his dick between pouty lips.

He goes slowly at first, building up momentum because he doesn’t know just how much Stiles can take and doesn’t want to scare him off, but Stiles seems determined, forcing himself forward against Derek’s thrusts every so often until tears were forming and his eyes looked bloodshot as he stared up at Derek.

“Okay?” Derek asks when he pulls back, watching Stiles get an intake of breath. He looks wrecked already, hair wild and skin blotchy and red from sweat and slight lack of air.

“Yeah,” Stiles answers with a voice that sounds like a chainsaw had just destroyed his vocal chords. Or, you know, Derek’s dick. “’cept I think I’m getting lockjaw, which totally tells me you should fuck something else now besides my mouth.”

Derek wants to laugh at him, but it’s hard to find the situation anything less than just hot even though Stiles is wiggling his eyebrows at him in this childish manner that Derek overlooks entirely. He hauls Stiles up, ignoring the yelp and awkward wave of the younger man’s arms, heaving him closer so their chests are flush.

Stiles nods between them, looking down at his _entirely_ clothed form and Derek’s _not-so-clothed_ form.

“Y’know, this would be a whole lot easier if I was naked too.”

“And if you’d stop talking,” Derek retorts, kissing the loudmouth again, breaking to lift his shirt above and over his head. Stiles steps away from him then, leaving him to make his way towards Derek’s bed, all white sheets and black frames, where he sits at the edge of the mattress and stares at the werewolf expectantly.

“This is usually where you flip me over and make me beg.”

Derek doesn’t hesitate, not for a second, too fixated on the way Stiles bends his legs at the knees to accommodate Derek’s body fitting between them. He crawls on the bed over Stiles, crowding him further back to the array of pillows and biting down on exposed skin, wherever he can get his mouth.

Derek slips a hand between them, rubbing over the bulge tenting Stiles’ pants a few times just to map out the length of him. He watches how Stiles’ eyes close, how he hums and rolls his hips up slowly. Derek has half a mind to just get him off like that, let Stiles rub himself off on his hand until he’s panting and exhausted, but he knows he wants more than that; knows that Stiles wants more as well.

“God you’re so fucking warm,” Stiles mumbles, moaning at the heat radiating from Derek’s hand, through the fabric and straight onto his dick. “Can you-“

“Want me to-“

“Yeah, fuck, get them off.” Stiles lifts his hips up from the mattress, allowing Derek to yank the pants off his legs, revealing blue and red boxers that he knows has the Captain America shield on the back, a dark spot on the front from where he’s already leaking. Stiles, unashamed, pays no mind to the adolescent item of clothing and instead bites down on his bottom lip, a form of begging for Derek to continue.

He does, peeling the boxers off and tossing them elsewhere. It leaves Stiles naked and flushed, dick heavy and needy over his lower stomach.

Derek doesn’t pay much mind to it though, just focused on tucking his hands in the back of Stiles' knees and pushing his legs up, near to his chest.

“Shit, Der,” Stiles breathes, surprised he can even find words because with the way Derek’s looking at him, he’s pretty sure he stopped breathing a long time ago. “Fuck, are you gonna- yep, yeah you are.”

It’s quick, just a press of his tongue to Stiles’ hole, but it’s sudden and Stiles can’t seem to look away from the dark hair hovering between his legs, begging to watch Derek eat him out.

The older man looks up then, locking eyes with Stiles as his tongue drags along the sensitive ring of muscles, circling and coaxing him to loosen up. Stiles moans guttural and low in his throat, dropping his head to the pillow beneath him and fisting the sheets when he feels Derek’s tongue slip inside of him slowly, wet and warm.

“Oh god.” Stiles bites down on his fist. “You’re a fucking tease, of course you’d be a fucking tease.”

He can almost feel Derek smile even with his tongue in his ass, and he fists his fingers in those short black locks.

“Dickhead.”

Derek pulls back then, leaving Stiles empty and whining at the loss of contact.

“You want me to fuck you or not?”

Stiles heartbeat perks at that, a stutter, and Derek gives him a once over until it hits him. Noticing the change in his expression and the little way Derek’s head twitches to the side, Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Have you-“

“Just fingers and some toys, but we made it this far and I’m not fucking backing out and neither are you, big guy. Now come on, mount me.”

“ _Ew_.”

“Yeah, yeah, wolf boy-“ He cuts himself off with a moan as Derek presses a finger to his lax hole and pushes in, finding little resistance.

“Shut up.”

“No, give me another.”

Derek laughs dryly and rolls his eyes but he does it anyways, stopping to spit between his cheeks and slink down to his stomach for better leverage. His cheek rests on the inside of Stiles’ pale thigh and Stiles swears he’s fucking taunting him. Three years _, three years_ of pining after the dude and the moment Stiles finally gets this opportunity to fuck _Derek Hale_ he does nothing but tantalize him, with his beautiful fucking green eyes and his scruffy beard and his stupid fucking bunny teeth that are – _oh_ – biting down in all the right spots,

“ _Fuck_.”

Derek smirks, and Stiles wants to say something, anything to jab at him just because he can, but he’s at a loss for words because Derek’s fingers push in deeper and his mouth is at his balls, taking each in one at a time to suck at them lazily. Shivers rack through Stiles’ body, his dick achingly hard and annoyingly unappreciated.

He reaches down to wrap a hand around himself, getting two quick tugs in before he feels Derek swatting him away.

“Mine,” Derek mumbles, pressing a kiss to the area of skin next to the base of Stiles’ cock and replacing Stiles’ hand with his own, twisting his wrist as he works him over.

“Oh my god,” Stiles groans, feeling like his eyes are rolling to the back of his head. “Yeah, sure, it’s yours.”

It isn’t until Stiles has a soft sheen of sweat over his skin, three fingers in his ass, and constant moans fill the room that Derek thinks he’s ready. A few adjustments and awkward movements later and Derek’s rolling a condom on and fiddling with a bottle of lube, slicking himself up.

Stiles waits patiently ( _for once_ ) body pliant and beautiful as he relaxes into the comforter. His chest is heaving, and Derek can sense the nerves, the anticipation, and desperately wants to make it good for the mole-speckled boy. When he settles himself between Stiles again his hands find their way to Stiles’ thighs, running up the milky skin to his hips before delving in and kissing cupid bow lips. It’s soft, entirely too soft for someone as normally rugged-looking as Derek, and Stiles is surprised at how gentle he is, fingertips just barely digging into skin.

“You want it like this, or should I flip you over and _make you beg_?”

Stiles snorts, breaking the kiss to shake his head. “No, no Der this is fine. Just fuck me.”

Derek grunts softly, hitching Stiles’ legs up higher and reaching between their bodies to line himself up with Stiles’ hole. The boy beneath him is breathing irregularly, eyes closed and lips parted brilliantly as Derek presses their foreheads together.

“Relax,” he whispers, pushing himself past the first ring of muscles and watches as Stiles’ back arches, mouth forming a silent ‘O’. His body feels tense but Derek slides in easily, filling him to the hilt and inching back to get a better look at the blissed out expression Stiles is adorning.

Hands are wrapping around Derek’s neck and Stiles suddenly feels small like that, his limbs draped around Derek’s body like he’s clinging to some kind of lifeline while his fingers sift through the locks on his head.

“Fuck, Der, ’m so full.” Stiles says drunkenly.

“Yeah?” Derek breathes the word against his lips, and Stiles swallows it down, licking his lips with a nod. “Your toys couldn’t fill you up like this?” He emphasizes the question with a shallow roll of his hips, kissing the gasp that Stiles lets out.

“No, never, _shit_.”

Lips find their way to Stiles’ neck, head nuzzling into the skin before blunt teeth are biting down on a tendon. Derek wishes he could drink in every subtle noise and dramatic sigh that Stiles exhales, keeping them with him for days, weeks. Something in the way he completely submits and trusts Derek has his hips moving faster, the drag and pull becoming easier every passing second, and soon enough the headboard is rocking against the wall, tiny _thump thump thump_ ’s echoing around them.

Derek sits up on his knees when he’s done bruising Stiles’ skin, throwing one of Stiles’ legs over his shoulder, holding the back of his other leg by the knee and keeping his legs spread. Stiles’ body is bouncing lightly, eyes wide and pupils blown, up on his elbows with his gaze facing downwards towards where their hips are meeting and where his cock sits flushed and pretty and hard, curved over his stomach and smearing precome near his belly button.

“Oh fuck,” Stiles whispers, the words loud and clear to Derek, and it just urges him on even more, snapping his hips upwards. The movement drives Stiles’ head back, exposing his throat and Derek watches his Adam’s apple bob with a swallow, a low groan coming out in broken sobs. “Right there, Der, fuck, keep going.”

Derek wants to reply, wants to fill Stiles’ head with dirty words and senseless thoughts, but he’s too focused, too fixated on driving him crazy with the drag of his cock against that sweet bundle of nerves inside of him.

“Look at me,” he growls instead, sinking in deeper and staying there, letting Stiles feel all of him at once as he tries lifting his head from the pillows. Their eyes lock and Stiles looks crazed, hair wild and the blush on his cheeks red and blotchy; Derek is sure he looks the same, hair disheveled from when Stiles was running his fingers through it and his brows furrowed.

Derek can’t help himself when he leans forward and kisses him, forcing his tongue past plump lips excitedly. Stiles can feel the snarl in the back of his throat and it forces a moan into Derek’s mouth. The leg resting on Derek’s shoulder falls as Derek hovers over him more, the hand pressed into the fold of his knee pushing his leg up further, his ass lifting from the bed and Derek somehow fucks him deeper like this. There’s a hand gripping the headboard above his head when he opens his eyes and he’s suddenly overwhelmed that Derek has him practically folded in half and is fucking him so hard he’s losing all train of thought.

Stiles throws an arm over his face, biting down on the inside of his elbow, his other hand sliding between them so he can jerk himself off sloppily. There’s enough slick from his cock that he doesn’t need any extra help, the glide easy.

“Hey, don’t.” It takes Stiles a moment to register that Derek was speaking above him, his thoughts foggy from the constant pressure inside of him. The hand holding his leg up moves, Derek’s arm hooking around his leg and his hand wraps around his wrist, forcing his arm away from his face and pinning it for a moment before letting go and steadying himself on the mattress. Derek’s watching him, looking hungry and somehow starved for more. “Wanna see you.”

Stiles hums at that, closing his eyes, but he gets a grunt and a harsh snap of Derek’s hips in response, eyes flying open in shock.

“I said I want to see you,” Derek states, rougher this time, and he’s fucking Stiles hard enough that he’s moving back on the mattress, using the headboard for leverage and throwing the pillows out from under Stiles’ head until Stiles is almost bumping into the panel behind him. He throws a hand up and braces it on the woodwork behind him, biting down on his bottom lip.

“ _Derek_ , holy shit,” he moans, stroking himself faster until he feels the heat in his stomach pooling, every nerve sparking. Derek feels like he’s getting hotter to the touch, the heat radiating off of him in waves and splashing over Stiles’ body. “ _Fuck_ , you feel so good, I’m gonna come soon.”

“Yeah,” Derek says more as an agreement than a response, his thrusts becoming simultaneously irregular and more precise at the same time, persistent in getting Stiles off and watching every moment of it.

“Derek, _please_.” Stiles’ is whining at this point, hips rocking upwards and desperate for his release at this point. “’m so close, fuck, want you to come on me please.”

The sentence ends with a choke and Stiles’ body tenses up, his hand working him over until thick strings of come are painting his stomach, reaching as far as his chin, and he looks surprised at the sudden release. Derek watches in awe, the image of the boy beneath him coming setting him off and he pulls out quickly, tossing the condom aside and bringing himself to his knees on either side of Stiles. He runs a hand through the mess on Stiles’ stomach and brings it to his dick. Their faces are close, eyes locked and Stiles looks mischievous and wrecked as ever, urging him on as he fucks into his fist, the pretty pink of his head peeking out through the ring of his fingers.

“Fuck yeah Der, wanna taste you.” His mouth opens then, tongue poking out and pressing down on his bottom lip, making his mouth look obscene and Derek can’t help himself, grabbing his chin and digging his fingers into rosy cheeks before he’s coming over them, painting his lips in white lines and making a mess of his face.

He’s breathing heavy as he slinks down Stiles’ body, licking up the come on his chest while his thumb pushes his own into Stiles’ mouth, doing his best to ignore how Stiles’ lips wrap around his thumb greedily – or how he’s using his own fingers to brush through the come on his cheeks and sucking them off like he can’t get enough of Derek’s taste.

Derek rolls on his back when he’s finished, both of them lying side by side in similar positions with their faces flushed and a hand splayed over their chests.

“Fuck,” Stiles laughs after a few moments of silence, dropping his hand to his side, their skin brushing. “Do I looked as wrecked as I feel?”

Turning, Derek rests on his elbow and looks Stiles over, taking notes of everything he sees as Stiles mirrors his movements. How his chest is blooming and shiny, contrasting against pale flesh that’s littered beautifully with moles and beauty marks Derek wishes he had the time to trace with his tongue. Come is still pooled around one of his nipples that Derek was sure he’d sucked clean, and his hips are slightly bruised, marked by Derek’s fingertips. His lips are still full and pouty, swollen from kisses and the rough scrape of a beard, brows resting gently over lidded eyes and hair sticking up wildly.

Derek finds himself blushing, embarrassed at the sudden realization of how much he had grown to memorize about the anxiety-ridden kid and just how much he seemed to care for him; if saving each other from countless ridiculous situations didn’t already tell him that.

“Hey,” Stiles smiles up at him, lifting a limp hand to swat playfully at Derek’s chest and Derek grabs that wrist, startling Stiles for a moment as he yanks him over until he flips, their stomachs mushed together and Stiles’ head resting against the soft hair on Derek’s chest. One of his legs falls between Derek’s and Derek wraps an arm around Stiles’ back. His heartbeat increases with his nerves and Derek tries to settle them with a kiss to the top of his head; he answers with a flutter.

“You look fine. How do you feel?”

Stiles shrugs beneath his hold.

“Wrecked.”

Huffing out a laugh, Derek smiles.

“Are you sore, is what I meant.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah. But it’s not too bad you know. Thanks, for uh, you know. Taking one for the team.”

Derek’s brows scrunch over his forehead, slight confusion in his expression.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asks, staring up at the ceiling.

“For like, boning me.”

“Oh my god,” Derek resists the urge to groan and instead smiles and shakes his head. “You’re such a teenager.”

“Did my boyish physique not give that away?”

Raising a brow, Derek looks down at Stiles who’s looking back up at him, snorting and digging his head into Derek’s armpit, nipping the skin playfully.

“You’re eighteen, Stiles, not twelve. Don’t make this weird.”

“So it’s not weird for you?” Stiles bites on his bottom lip, mumbling the words into Derek’s skin like he’s too afraid to speak them clearly. Derek hears them, though, loud and clear even if he didn’t want them to be.

“No,” he says simply, hitching Stiles up higher and lifting his head up by his hair, pressing their lips together. “I fucked you because I wanted to, by the way, not because I was _taking one for the team_ or whatever you think.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, now go to bed.”

Stiles hums mockingly, lifting his brows in a lively manner. “Not tired, Der.”

“Bullshit.” Derek smacks at Stiles’ ass playfully, getting a handful just because he can. “That’s adrenaline and coffee keeping you awake.”

“That’s adrenaline, coffee, and the fact that you’re still naked and I might be getting hard again.”

“ _That’s_ teenage hormones.”

“No, _that’s_ because you’re an asshole and extremely hot and I hate you for it.”

“ _Sleep_.”

“No.”

“Stiles.”

“Derek.”

“Stiles, go to bed.”

“ _Derek_.”

“Oh my god.”

**Author's Note:**

> i continue to not know how to end oneshots and to be a disappointment to my mother bc i write gay fanfiction


End file.
